But after that terrible brain fever, that great struggle between the opposing forces of life and death, Vera lies still upon her couch with wide, dark eyes that look out from her small, white face drearily upon the world--the great, wicked world in which, though she has so much wealth and power, she cannot claim so much as a single true friend. "Unless Lady Clive be one," she muses, "and--and," but then she stops, and takes herself to task because she has so strangely thought of Captain Lockhart just then. "Where can he be?" she wonders. "Perhaps he has taken himself off to livelier quarters. The house must have been as dull as a tomb while I lay so ill. I wonder if Lady Clive will ever forgive me for spoiling her 'season' like this." She propounds this latter question gravely to Lady Clive herself, who responds with an encouraging smile, and the gay little answer: "I will try." But when she sees how pale and wistful is Countess Vera's lovely face, she folds her in her arms and kisses her. "My dear, do not give a thought to _that_," she says. "There is nothing to forgive, believe me. I am very glad that you were with us when you fell sick. I have nursed you with all the love and tenderness I could have given a sister." Why should Countess Vera's heart beat so fast at the thought of being Lady Clive's sister, and why should her pale cheeks flush, and the grateful words falter on her lips? "We all love you," her friend goes on kindly. "The children have been dolorous over you. 'When will Vera come and see us again?' they ask every day. Have you looked at the pretty bouquets they sent in for you this morning?" Lady Vera smiles assent. Fresh flowers are brought to her room every morning, and they tell her the children send them. But there are only three children, and always four bouquets. Vera asks no questions but she knows that the fourth one is always the largest and sweetest. To-day it is of crimson rose-buds, mixed with heliotrope and pansies, for there is always some blending of her favorite flower. "You do not know how much we miss you from our home circle," the charming Lady Clive resumes, vivaciously. "You must not leave us when you get well, dear. Make your home with us until you get settled for life. You will be so lonely if you try to live alone with a chaperon. Won't you promise to stay?" "I will think of it," Lady Vera answers, gratefully, while tears rise to her dark eyes. Lady Clive comes to sit with her often, sending away the prim nurse, and installing herself in her place. She chats vivaciously, retailing bits of society gossip, telling of all the great people who have left cards of condolence for the young countess, of the lovers who are all _desoles_ over her illness; of Sir Harry's regret and the children's clamorous despair. But, strange to say, she utterly forgets the existence of her brother, Captain Lockhart, or, perhaps, deems the subject uninteresting to her guest.